Standing the heat

Now that my memoir manuscript has simmered for a few weeks, I returned to it only to recognize I’m back in the dark shadows. When I last left it, I felt hopeful and energized. It seemed whole, a book I could be proud of, that made sense. Alas, the return throws me into, not despair, but something akin to it, a feeling of inadequacy that I have the fortitude to see this thing through.

It’s been so hot and humid lately that I’m weary of sweating, the air more glue than oxygen.

I shared the manuscript with a writer friend, the first person I’ve asked to put eyes on it. After I sent it to her, I opened it back up and all of its flaws, plot holes, misspellings and incomplete sentences jumped off the page at me. Will I ever get over myself?

One of my dogs tore his CCL and it’s been a real challenge to keep him subdued enough that he doesn’t injure it worse. The heat helps. He’s too oppressed to muster orneriness.

One thing I realized in re-reading my book for the umpteenth time (with umpteen more to go) is that I somehow left out a major childhood illness that lasted several years and is very much connected to the theme of the book. I think. Maybe. I’m shocked that it wasn’t on my radar though now I question whether my subconscious blocked out the trauma because it was so significant or if it blocked it because it doesn’t matter. Time and revision will tell.

This summer has been so hot and humid that the gardens, fields and forests surrounding me remain lush and green far deeper into the season than normal. I wake in the morning to condensation on the windows, a mug of mist and low fog that soaks everything. When I walk the dogs, I wear rain boots to traipse through the tall meadow.

Something has happened with age, or at least I’ll attribute it to age, and that is a lower threshold of tolerance for staring at a computer screen. I used to could (that’s a regionalism of voice I refuse to correct) stare at my laptop all day without a break. Now, I come up for air after an hour and my head feels swimmy and loose. It takes another hour to return to normal.

Thank God for central air. This is only my second summer as an adult knowing such a luxury.

I joined Run Club at the gym. Gutting through training runs in preparation for a marathon relay next month feels a lot like gutting through writing a book. My body revolts. My brain protests. The heat doesn’t help. By and by, as Grandma used to say, business gets taken care of.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say except that maybe it’s to tell myself to keep going. I don’t know what else to do. The alternative isn’t very appealing. Besides, the birds are singing again this morning, and I saw a tree in a neighbor’s yard so burdened with peaches that some of its branches broke. How dare I complain of abundance.